RODERICK HUDSON
reconsidered and confirmed purpose, in acquired will-power."
"Oh, don't talk about such dreadful things!" Roderick answered, throwing back his head and looking at the stars. This conversation also took place in the open air, on the little island in the rushing Rhone where Jean-Jacques, himself so far from remarkable for the control of his course, is enthroned in bronze as the genius of the spot.
"The will, it seems to me, is an abyss of abysses and a riddle of riddles. Who can answer for his properly having one? who can say beforehand that it 's going in a given case to be worth anything at all? There are all kinds of uncanny underhand currents moving to and fro between one's will and the rest of one one's imagination in particular. People talk as if the two things were essentially distinct; on different sides of one's organism, like the heart and the liver. Mine, I know—that is my imagination and my conscience—are much nearer together. It all depends upon circumstances. I believe there 's a certain group of circumstances possible for every man, in which his power to choose is destined to snap like a dry twig."
"My dear man," said Rowland, "don't talk about any part of you that has a grain of character in it being 'destined.' The power to choose is destiny. That 's the way to look at it."
"Look at it, my good Rowland," Roderick answered, "as you find most comfortable. One conviction I 've gathered from my summer's experience," he went on—"it 's as well to look it frankly
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